Plot Bunnies Drabble Vomit
by X2DarkLord
Summary: A story where random odd and ends dribble out of my brains.
1. Liar Liar Pants On Fire

**Summary: James Potter was careless when he left a vial of veritaserum within easy reach of a toddler Harry. This has far reaching consequences.**

* * *

Harry was in elementary school when he figured out that he could not lie in any shape or form. Any attempt to do so caused his mouth to involuntarily close and his hands to spasm uncontrollably.

By the time the Hogwart letter came, he learned the art of half truths and misdirection.

* * *

"'Arry, 'appy birthday! Here - 'ave a cake. I bake it meself, I did!"

His first birthday cake! Happily, Harry took the proffered knife and cut a slice for himself - it took two hands to force the knife through the crust. When he managed to scoop out a portion of the cake with a spoon, he brought it up to his mouth and bit on it.

 _CRUNCH_

Eyes watering, he managed to chew on it. "'Ow was it?"

Looking up at Hagrid's happy, round face, he swallowed, keenly feeling the sensations of the cake travel down his throat. "I would like to find someone who would like this more than I do!" Beaming, an emotional Hagrid brought out a huge handkerchief that could've doubled as a table cover and dabbed at his eyes. Harry threw the rest of the slice at the fireplace when Hagrid was preoccupied.

* * *

"You'll find that some wizarding families are better than others, Potter. I could help you there."

Taking his outstretched hand in a handshake, Harry replied, "Thank you, I would be remiss if I didn't know who isn't better according to your thoughts."

* * *

"You think you're too good for Gryffindor, aren't you Potter?" Ron sneered as he was flanked by Seamus and Dean.

Looking up from his plate, Harry chewed thoughtfully. Swallowing, he drawled, "Certainly not. The Hat indicated that it chose Slytherin because the color brings out my eyes."

"Huh?"

"C'mon Weasley, look at my tie. Look at my eyes. They have the same lovely color. Wouldn't you agree eh, Greengrass?" Daphne rolled her eyes, a very light pink tinge on her cheeks.

"You're slimey, it's what you are, Potter! You-you've gone Dark!" Ron loudly proclaimed, as if he was revealing a great secret.

Harry blinked. He patted his head and managed to pluck out a strand of black hair, inspecting it. He looked down at his black robe, shirt and handbag. "Astute observation, Weasley. We have a budding Sherlock Holmes here, guys! Hey, can you tell me what I'll become in the future?"

"Think you're so smart? I'll tell you what's gonna happen. I'll show you what a real Gryffindor is - I'll duel you! Dean is my second - you got one?"

A single eyebrow rose. Looking around, his fellow Slytherins were sniggering. "I don't have a second...but okay. Where?"

"In the trophy room tonight...if you dare."

"Twelve?" "Twelve."

At Harry's assent, Ron grinned maliciously and stalked off. Harry glanced at his watch and announced, "Well, it's fifteen minutes to noon. Think I have enough time to get there?"

* * *

"POTTER! WHERE IS MY WAND?" Looking up from his book, Harry's eyebrows rose when he saw a red faced Draco Malfoy stomp down the stairs, wearing silver pajamas.

Harry hid a smile, "Uhm, I don't know why you're asking me...but it's there." He discreetly pointed at Draco's crotch to the amusement of Tracey and Daphne.

"NO, NOT THAT ONE!" Draco spluttered, fury and embarrassment warring on his face. "DID YOU TAKE MY MAGIC WAND?"

"Your...magic wand? You named your wand? I...didn't need to know that."

"NO!" Draco screamed, splattering Harry and Daphne with spit, much to her disgust. "MY WAND! THE ONE I USE TO CAST SPELLS!"

"Why would I take your wand if I have one?"

"BECAUSE YOU THINK IT'S FUNNY! WHEN MY FATHER HEARS ABOUT THIS...!"

"Malfoy, I have no idea where you think that I possibly took your wand, and beside, why would I take yours when I have one of my own?"

"YOU-YOU! ARGH!" Turning around, Draco stomped back up the stairs, silver pajamas billowing. Snickering, Harry drew out Draco's wand from his robe pocket and threw it at a napping kneazle in a corner. Yowling, the kneazle hissed at him, bit the wand and ran up the female dormitory.

"Well. That's out of my hand now." Tracey collapsed against Daphne, laughing hysterically.

* * *

"Potter! Where is my potions homework? I know you took it!" Ron screamed at him, grabbing the attention of everyone in the great hall.

Affecting a confused face, Harry blinked. "When would I have taken your homework?"

"When you bumped into me in the hallway!"

"Why do you think I need to take your homework, Weasley? If I recall, you're in the bottom in potions. Even Longbottom is better than you, and that's saying something."

Ron flushed in anger and shoved his arm into robe pocket, intending to curse Harry. But he froze when Professor Snape slammed his hand on his shoulder. "Detention, Weasley...effective immediately. Perhaps Mr. Filch can teach you to control your...emotions." Turning, he dragged a protesting Ron out with him.

As soon as they were out of sight, Harry uncovered Ron's homework by moving his book. Blaise, Tracey and Daphne blinked in surprise. "Wait, you mean he was right?" Tracey blurted out.

"There are people who would dispute that statement." Harry smirked, picking up the homework. "No no, listen. 'The eye of newt is used to cool down Pepper-up potion as the fire is simmered, resulting in a more stable solution that can last twice as long as a standard potion.'"

"What?! No one can be possibly that stupid!" Blaise, the current top student in potions, snatched the homework from Harry's hand. Tracey leaning in to read it behind his shoulder. "Merlin, he actually wrote that. He should be barred from potions forever, he's a walking hazard!"

* * *

"Mr. Potter." Percy Weasley fixed a beady glare at him. "Where is Ron?"

"Well...I don't know where he's not."

"So you know where he is?"

"It wouldn't be inaccurate to say that there is a possibility that my knowledge of his current whereabouts is potentially incorrect."

Percy rubbed his forehead in irritation. "So you do know where he is?"

"On the contrary, I'm more or less not rejecting the idea that in no way with any amount of certainly I can say where he can be located, if that is indeed where he isn't."

Percy closed his eyes. He counted to ten. "Mister Potter."

"Undeniably, as of this current time, I cannot say with any certainly where he potentially might be, since this is a free period and he is mobile, so my potential guess becomes increasingly outdated as the seconds tick by."

Percy gave up.

* * *

She held out a dress. "Does this dress makes me look fat?"

Beads of sweat collecting on his forehead, Harry bravely trudged on in the minefield. "I wouldn't say that. On the contrary, you wear this dress very well, and the dress indeed looks good. But I am of the opinion that the dress would look even better on the bedroom floor."

 _Hours later_

A shirtless Harry sipped a tumbler of scotch as he leaned back, a woman passed out on his chest, blankets covering half of her nude form. He smirked as he finished the scotch.

* * *

"Do you love me, Harry?"

"Who wouldn't?"

"Harry. Give me a straight answer. Do you love me?"

"How could I not?"

* * *

His meteoric rise in politics was magnificent.

"Mister Potter! Jessica Albatera, _Daily Prophet_! They say that the incoming flux of muggleborns are encroaching on old traditions and eroding our history...Our readers would like to know what is your stance on this?"

"Miss Albatera, this is a very complex question with a very complex answer. Suffice to say that I believe that people are free to follow whatever tradition or idea they feel that best fits their current circumstances. After all, following such belief granted wizards a sovereign entity separate from the muggle government, with the blessing of Her Majesty, and that is what makes the magical United Kingdom great."

"Mr. Potter! Greg Multeron, _Witch Weekly_! When you were in Paris for the ICW convention, you were sighted in L'Assiete Bouchon in the company of Apolline Delacour, wife of Minister of Treasury! Our readers would like to know what is your relationship with Mrs. Delacour?"

"I am not in the habit of revealing my private life, but I shall attempt to sooth your readers. Mr. Multeron, I do not make a habit of tempting married women, and I do not intend to start now."

"Mr. Potter, given your playboy histo-"

"Allegedly, Mr. Multeron. If you're accusing me of such deeds, I have nothing more to say."

"...right." Dropping that line of question, he cleared his throat, suddenly very uncomfortable. "The Holyhead Harpies have extended an invitation to you for their post quidditch party-that makes you the fourth male in Holyhead Harpie's history to receive that distinction, after Sirius Black. Will you be attending?"

"Ah, Holyhead Harpies. A very excellent team. I've had the honor of playing against them, and I can quite assure you that they made me pay dearly for every point I scored. After that display, I would not presume to sully their party with my presence. I am sure they still have pent up aggression from last game, and I, without an idea of a certain doubt, would say that I potentially would not survive the aftermath."

"Herr Potter. Rupprecht Küttner, _Die Welt_. Ve are having a large influx of Polish eemigrants becauze of Lady de Vinter's attack on the quidditch stadium in the country tryout. Vat ich your opinion of theese eemigrants? Should ve not limit them?"

"What are you saying, Herr Küttner? That we should limit the number of immigrants? Then tell me, Herr Küttner, where would the rest of the immigrants go if we set a quota on number of incoming immigrants? Italy? France? They have no home. This is the United Kindom, we have the Irish, Gaelic scots, Cornish, Ulster scots, Welsh, and so many more. Who are we to deny one more? We might as well call ourselves the spiritual descendent of Lord Voldemort and Lady de Winter! We are a member of the United Kingdom headed by Her Majesty, and we will keep our borders open, as we always have in the past."

* * *

Even his enemies loved him.

"It's absolutely uncanny! There was something about him for everyone...world leaders loved him. Politicians wanted to be him. Even his enemies!"

"Indeed, my dear. I'm told that Lady de Winter personally sent Minister Potter a bouquet of flowers with card when he was ill with dragon pox!"

The talk host gasped. "You don't say!"

"Yes, it is very much true. Even Herr Wedekind, you remember him, the upcoming Dark Lord, announced a cession of hostility for the entire duration of his illness!"


	2. An Illusive Encounter

**Summery: HP/ME crossover. Anymore and I will ruin the surprise, lol.**

* * *

Harry sat with an internal sigh. He really was getting too old. He turned around to look at himself in the reflection of the floor to ceiling glass. The years were not kind to him – he had crow's feet at the corners of his eyes, his hair was the color of cast iron gray, and his hands shook unless he was holding something.

And yet…the years had been kind to him. The age lines on his face only served to make him look like a nobleman. His eyes, long ago replaced with a pair of synthetic ocular implants, only served to heighten that impression. His arms were still lean and wiry, and his clothes still fit him perfectly.

He looked like a god-king of aged warriors hailing from a dead culture, and in a way, it was true. Like an ancient dragon, he was old and worn but had become ten times deadlier because of it.

He looked down to the holographic display on his chair and noted the company motto at the top of the report. Past, Present, Future, it read. He closed his eyes as he remembered happier days of ages ago.

" _I found it!" She crowed, face flushed with pleasure. She turned and dumped a gigantic tome on the desk in front of him, kicking up a huge cloud of dust. Shaking the dust out of her bushy hair, she peered above the book at him and smiled sweetly, "Go on Harry, say it."_

Watchdog of the Past. The Watcher that knows the History and Lost Knowledge and advises the Present to avoid a repeat of History.

 _Shaking his head and coughing, Harry waved his hand to clear the dust cloud. "Nice try Hermione, but I'm not nearly that dumb to fall for it." As the dust settled, he grinned at Hermione's pouting face. "Oh, cheer up. Ron will be here soon and –"_

" _Oi-whut abeut meh?" Ron stumbled toward their desk, his face obscured by a stack of books taller than Colin Creevy. Dropping the stack of books on the table with a groan, he slumped next to Harry. "She's bloody mental, Harry! What d'you reck—what?" he stopped at the look on Harry's face. Harry looked away in amusement and tried to busy himself by picking up one book from the stack and opening it. Hermione cleared her throat. Harry peeked above his book and smirked at the dawning of horror on Ron's face._

Watchdog of the Future. The Watcher that uses the Present events to predict upcoming events, and plan for and against the best and worst eventualities to come.

" _Did I say mental? I meant mentally brilliant!" Casting a betrayed look at Harry, he babbled onwards, "Did I ever say, uhm, how absolutely brilliant you're this evening? I love what you've done with your hair, and…" He trailed off to quail under her glare. Suppressing a heavy sigh, Harry put down his book and interrupted a furious Hermione, "Hermione, save it for later. Ron, shut up." He pointedly looked at the library clock, "We're running short. What do we need?"_

Watchdog of the Present. The leader who assimilates the warnings of the Past with the upcoming events of the Future into one coherent Present.

One of the holographic displays on his chair dinged, breaking him out of his reminiscing. Taking a look at the display, Harry picked up a cigar and lit it as he turned the chair around to wait for his newest visitor. After he had taken a few puffs, a low hum echoed in the room. There, in front of him, the quantum entanglement communication array reconstructed his visitor's body inch by inch.

Soon enough, the QEC field stabilized and he was staring at a handsome man in his early thirties bedecked in heavy armor with a red N7 logo on his left breast. His armor was singed and scuffed, his face was tense and his eyes that were constantly scanning spoke of a person that was on high alert.

He leaned back with a nearly imperceptible approving smirk, the cigar smoke lazily drifting in front of him. In a way, his guest had the correct initiative by treating him like a hostile. Tapping the cigar on an ashtray on his armchair, he looked into his guest's eyes.

"Commander Shepard."

"Illusive Man."


End file.
